Ushpizzin
by Roga
Summary: Every year, Wilson builds a sukkah. Written for the Jewish Character Ficathon, includes Biblical characters.


_**Ushpizzin**__: in Jewish tradition, seven spiritual guests invited on each of the days of Sukkot, the seven "shepherds" of Israel: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, David. Thanks to __**queenzulu**__for the beta; written for the Days of Awesome Jewish Character Ficathon._

**Ushpizzin**

Every year, Wilson builds a sukkah. Back in Teaneck, he used to build it in his parents' yard. In Canada he found the local chapter of Hillel and lent a hand; in Columbia, he helped build the sukkah on the roof of the Beit Ephraim dorms; wherever he worked after that, he'd find a small synagogue or a big enough room in the hospital and go to work. In Princeton, Cuddy and Dr. Ford agree to give him a designated space in Pediatrics.

"Why do you bother?" House asks derisively, and answers his own question. "You know your brother won't show up just because you've built a little hut with a welcome sign."

Wilson simply says, "I'm waiting for guests."

He sends the first one to Cuddy.

He never asks what they talked about, but that night, just as he's locking up, she stops by his office and thoughtfully starts, "You know, I had a conversation today…"

"What?" he asks. Her hand is awkwardly positioned, suspended in front of her stomach -- maybe, just barely, touching.

"Nothing," she shakes her head, "nothing," and pauses, and changes her mind. "It's not too late for me, is it," she murmurs, a faint smile playing on her lips, almost awed.

Wilson smiles with his eyes. "It's never too late."

* * *

A day passes.

Cameron's never been able to resist a charity case with poor eyesight, and if he has clean snow-white hair and the speech mannerisms of a scholar, well, she doesn't notice. She treats him kindly and patiently, holding light conversation all the while, but when he turns his eyes to her and speaks, she can't help but feel his words hold more weight than a homeless old man's; _let go of control_, he says, _have faith_, and _not all sacrifices are necessary_, and she thinks of the things she's given up for this job and of the things she still doesn't let herself have. She is the doctor treating the patient, yet the compassion in the room is coming from his blind eyes.

* * *

A day passes.

Chase lives and breathes babies, the NICU his new home, and he's pretty okay most of the time but the visitor catches him on a bad day. A bad day, ironic, because nobody's dead and happy couples are everywhere, and it's only Chase who's caught between longing so strong he can taste it and the dead knowledge that _don't go there, it's a bad idea_. He should never inflict Chase-parenting on a child. He doesn't even realize he's saying this aloud until he has opened up to a complete stranger -- _so fucked up I had to trick him into calling House so I could get a job_, shocked that the words have even left his mouth. But the stranger merely closes his eyes, and sighs, "There was a time when I deceived my father too." He looks like he's about to say something else, but stops himself, and his eyes are full of regret when he finally says, "He has shaped your past. Don't let him shape your future."

Chase hears _mistakes don't have to be repeated_, and hopes, and _thinks_, he might be able to do that.

* * *

A day passes.

And Foreman is throwing out another unopened letter, and not returning another unanswered phone call, and he grinds his teeth when a teenage boy between bouts of juvie thinks he'll get special treatment just because he's black. Joseph observes silently as another voicemail is deleted, and then says, the epitome of peaceful, "I once thought that I would live within the confines of the world my brothers had created for me."

Foreman's head snaps to his. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

But Joseph's gaze is entirely too understanding. "Forgiveness will not make him forget what he has done," he says, voice certain and kind and heavy with experience. "It is not a weakness."

Somehow, Foreman knows he's telling the truth.

* * *

"Awesome staff," House says admiringly, on the fifth day.

"Yours isn't too shabby either," Moses smirks.

Wilson hadn't expected anything else, really.

* * *

Every year, there is only one question on Wilson's mind.

"Is my brother safe?"

Aaron strokes his beard. "What is safe?"

Wilson tries not to glare. "Don't get metaphysical on me now, please. It's a simple question."

"It is more complicated than you can imagine," Aaron exhales. "And I can tell you very little."

"Will I _see_ him this year?" Wilson asks sharply.

"Perhaps."

And Wilson knows that's all he's going to get, so he lets it go. _Perhaps_ is, at least, better than _no_.

"You must stop blaming yourself, some day," Aaron says quietly.

Wilson smiles sardonically. "Like you did?"

"The Lord knows I've made my own share of mistakes," Aaron says, "but I have learned to accept that my younger brother made some too, all on his own. Neither of us reached the promised land, in the end."

"Well, that's encouraging."

Aaron smiles, genuinely this time, and leans back, the jewels on his breast shimmering in the light: jade and agate, turquoise, cornelian, topaz, a chessboard of brilliant colors. "You must remember that we are all human, James," he say gently. "What will happen, will happen."

Easy to say, with the added benefits of both hindsight and foresight, Wilson thinks. But he sighs, because however small, it's still a relief, and says, "I'll take your word for it."

* * *

On the seventh day, his guest is neither aged nor white haired, and his short trimmed beard is streaked with gold.

"Hello, old friend," he tells Wilson. Watching him smile is like seeing the sunrise on clear spring day, brilliant and light.

"Your Majesty," Wilson nods, grinning a little at David's predictable wince; it startles him sometimes, that people still remember he was king three thousand years after his death.

David settles himself against the cushions. "Another year, then," he says. "You have been well?"

"It's been... interesting," Wilson starts, and then remembers that if there was ever someone who would pass no judgment, it was David. "It's been difficult," he says honestly. "Things fell apart."

"Oh?" David raises an eyebrow.

"But," Wilson says, thinking of pancakes on a Valentine morning, of _"seriously?"_ and rating nurses, of broken trust, unbelievably, repaired, "—they've been... picking up."

"Have you known love?" David asks, gravely serious, and after a moment bursts into laughter, rich and warm. "Never mind, never mind! Your face has just answered my question. Only love could make one so contently miserable, so blissfully confused."

Wilson almost feels like he should be offended, but he can't, not by him. "Does it ever get easier?"

"What, love?" David asks, considering the question, and Wilson remembers that for each one of his wives, David had three. "Love has caused me more pain than joy, and yet I could never manage to stop."

There's a depth of emotion in his eyes that Wilson finds hard to face; he wonders, not for the first time, whether the speculations regarding the king's love life were true, and resolves once again to ask him. Next year.

But now, David takes a sip of red wine (from a standard hospital paper cup; they can't all be kings), and glances at the walls of the sukkah, decorated with colorful paper chains the children made. "Nice place you got here," he comments, all traces of royalty draining away with the twinkle of an eye. "Feels like home."

The word _home_, and suddenly Wilson is reminded of the true toll this year has taken, and tries not to sound like he's complaining as he says, "I'm still living in a hotel."

"I spent some time living in a cave," David counters, and smiles confidently. "You'll get over it."


End file.
